


A Marvel of Christmastide

by raspberryhunter



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Christmas, F/M, M/M, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 19:22:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2823257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raspberryhunter/pseuds/raspberryhunter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two Christmas presents for Arthur: one welcome, one not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Marvel of Christmastide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [abbichicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbichicken/gifts).



> Thanks to my lovely and long-suffering beta sprocket!
> 
> This obviously takes place some time before "Sir Gawain and the Green Knight."

The wind blew chill, and the snow drifted in swirling eddies around the castle, but inside the great hall of Camelot there was warmth and light. The Yule log crackled merrily in the fireplace, casting flickering fantastic shapes of shadow on the walls.

The court was readying itself for the Christmas celebrations. Arthur sat at the high table, surveying the proceedings with some amusement. Taliesin was gesticulating wildly at a group of singers in one corner; the singers were teasing him in return. Ladies of the court giggled together whilst playing a game; Arthur could not tell the exact details, save that there was occasionally an eruption of mirth from the group and a cry of "Forfeit! Forfeit!"

At his right-hand side, Lancelot was saying cheerfully to Gawain, "Of course we can spar tomorrow, my friend."

Gawain leaned back in his seat and grinned at Arthur. "To avenge your honor, sire," Gawain said to Arthur. "I had other duties at the time, but I heard about the walloping you got this morning in your session with Lancelot. An epic battle for the ages, eh?"

Arthur grinned. Sparring with Lancelot was always an exceptional treat, although he never won; after so many years of it, they had developed a rhythm and a flow: almost like a dance, but with an essence of wildness, and with cuts and bruises at the end of it. He stretched, and winced slightly as the stretch caught on a bruise from that very session. "Avenge away, Sir Gawain, and Lance, if you have any recommendations for a salve, I would be glad to hear them."

Lancelot seemed about to say something, but at that moment Sir Kay announced dinner, and the servants trundled in, carrying heavy platters filled with roast boar, roast goose, and all manner of delicacies: lucent jellies, candied fruit, dried dates… Gawain eyed the food hungrily, but Arthur held up his hand. "As is my custom, I shall not eat until we see a wonder, a Christmas marvel."

"A small one, I hope," Gawain said, only half under his breath; "otherwise we shall starve amidst plenty, as we did last Christmastide." 

"And like last year," Lancelot said calmly, "the wonder may well be that you refrained from feasting for a whole half hour." Gawaine scowled good-naturedly at him. Taliesin had made it into a song, the Ballad of the Hungry Knight, that people still hummed when they wanted to tease Gawain.

Arthur glanced at Lancelot, his lips twitching, and Lancelot smiled broadly back at him. "A small wonder will do," Arthur said peacefully, as he caught sight of a small parcel on the table near his plate. "And perhaps this is it." He smiled at Lancelot. "A Yule-present, eh?" Such presents were only common among courting couples, and for just a second he wondered what Lancelot was thinking about; allowed himself to briefly eye Lancelot's firm muscled arms and full lips. Then he shook his head and bent his attention to the parcel.

Lancelot said sharply, "Arthur, I am not sure —"

But Arthur had already broken the seal on the paper; smoke issued forth, billowing about Arthur with a strange perfume. The grey plumes swirled around him, resolving finally into the figure of a woman, with midnight hair and flashing eyes: a face and body Arthur knew as well as his own, and had hoped to never see again.

Morgan le Fay, the queen, the enchantress -- and his lover, until he knew she was his sister. She had now sworn eternal enmity to him; she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He did not know if it was her in truth or only an illusion, but he knew that opening the package had triggered an enchantment that he could not now escape.

"Brother," Morgan said, her dark eyes glinting. "Shall we dance?"

In a trance, Arthur followed her. The musicians glanced at each other and struck up a carol. Some knights attempted to follow him, but could not get close to them. Lancelot appeared to be fumbling with something in his sleeve. Arthur paid them no mind.

"My enemy," Morgan said to him, her voice soft and seductive. "My love."

"My enemy," Arthur whispered, unable to stop looking at her; "my love."

She stretched out a hand to him. He thought, with the small part of his mind that was not under thrall to the apparition, that once they touched he would be utterly lost to the enchantment.

He extended his hand to her. He could see nothing but her. He wondered what her hand would feel like: if it would be ice-cold, or burning hot, or whether it would be as insubstantial as smoke.

"Avert!" Lancelot cried loudly, bringing his arms between the two of them. There was something in his hands; Arthur could not see clearly what it was, save that it was small and sparkled like a gem. Morgan, or the ghost of her, gave a thin cry, and vanished.

"Well," Gawain said, looking shaken, "I suppose even Arthur would agree that we can eat now."

*

"So why did you open it?" Lancelot said later that evening, in Arthur's rooms. He was lounging on the cushions before the fire in the grate, his eyes half-closed, though Arthur knew that his best knight would become instantly alert were there reason for it. "Strange presents, from who-knows-where —"

"I thought," Arthur confessed, "it was a present from you."

Lancelot stared at him, his eyes now wide open. A slow smile started on his face. "I do have a Yule-present for you, as it turns out, that I was saving for the Christmas feast. As a Christmas wonder, so as not to keep Gawain from his food." With a flourish, he produced a small parcel from his sleeve.

Arthur opened it. Inside was a small crystalline vial, as if it had been carved entirely out of diamond, filled with an amber liquid. He recognized the object that had been in Lancelot's hands earlier in the evening, when he had broken Morgan's enchantment.

"Very pretty, Lancelot; but what is it?"

"I found it," Lancelot said, becoming more animated, "in a strange country, with snow that never melted and summer that never came, and with beasts that spoke. One of them — a Lion — told me of this vial, and that I should bring it here for Christmas-tide — it is a magical liquid, I understand, made from the juice of the fire-flowers that grow in the mountains of the Sun of that place, the virtue of which is that a drop of it heals wounds; and the bottle itself breaks a magic spell of enthrallment."

"It was rather lucky for me that you had it," Arthur said wryly.

"Indeed."

A silence fell. Lancelot sighed, stirred. "I had better go, I suppose — Gawain will expect an early start tomorrow." He rose from the cushions. He looked at Arthur, half-expectantly, and then looked away.

"Wait. Stay a while, Lance," said Arthur suddenly, and then did not know what to say. He and Lancelot had been closer than brothers for years, but he had never asked anything like this of Lancelot before, and he did not know the words to use. "Stay," he repeated. His voice wobbled only slightly as he spoke.

He saw a shiver run all the way through Lancelot. He looked back at Arthur uncertainly. "I — would do anything you requested of me, my liege," he said, his voice rough. "I always would. If I only knew what you desired."

Arthur had said before that he loved Morgan, but that was not really love, he thought. "I want," he said, his voice low, "something that is not an enchantment, something that does not arise out of deceit and hatred and magic —"

He held out his hand to Lancelot, knowing that there would be no turning back here either; and Lancelot took it without any hesitation. His hand was neither smoke nor ice: but firm, and warm, and real.


End file.
